Why in Allah’s name is there a need to demean others? Why rile and enrage their leaders and imams, no matter how much we believe they were wrong in the past? Do we not have enough problems of our own? Mullah Happy pauses and lets out a massive burp, smiles ruefully, excuses himself, looks around the now almost empty room and leans forward. Are we united? Tell me, tell me, he almost whispers and I have to strain real hard to listen, let me know of 2 mullah or ayaat’Allahs that agree with each other and I’ll kiss your behind!
Eh? Is this the same genial and carefree Mullah Happy that I knew until today? He looks more and more like a man possessed, accusing his own and betting to kiss unholy human anatomy. He eyes me with look of defiance, a sneer on his face. He has touched on a subject that is very, very dicey, best kept to oneself, not open for discussion.
But Aagha, I start politically; surely the differences between various religious men are trivial, expressed as a sign of healthy democracy within our religion? Surely there is no harm if the differences do not fringe upon Usool e Deen?
Bah! Goes Mullah Happy, bah! You are naïve Sir, democracy and all. This is no Amreeka! This is India, Hindustan! Here one Mullah will sell another for much less than the cost of one carton of export quality Alphons mangoes. Have you not seen us put each other down at every opportunity? If one says the sun is very hot, another will object, trying to prove it is not very hot, only hot. We are almost all full of misplaced egos and run after what makes this world turn – money! You know how much we mullahs abuse the masses? He waits not for an answer. You, he says sternly and wags a finger at me, I cringe, you Khojas are so gullible. You think anyone wearing a black or white turban is made of eggs and needs to be treated as such. Or, or, you think we are so good and proper we do not shit!
Mamamia! I am lost for words and need time to digest this strange episode so I signal a lingering waiter for more tea. Mullah Happy takes a breather as well, and goes to the bathroom; not all very prim and proper, I guess.
The tea and Mullah Happy arrive simultaneously; we pour the tea and I sip contently. Brewed tea in a Mumbai restaurant has its own qualities; sweet and instantly refreshing. I eye Mullah Happy as he adds more sugar to his tea ruefully. I wish I had the same metabolism as his; the man eats twice as much as I can or do, unlimited amounts of his favorite Indian burfee and does not exercise a bit yet maintains a perfect figure and disposition. Now that is what I judge unfair; I have to watch every calorie I take in and only just maintain a reasonable waistline due to massive amount of running. I look at my watch and it is almost 4PM; my drive back home to Andheri, a mere 14 miles away will take at least 90 minutes. Interesting and intriguing as this meeting has been, I must start for home shortly.
Aagha, I say soothingly, this has been really interesting chat of ours. Why, I never knew you harbored such feeling and thoughts. But please do not let the opinions of one person upset you so much. Mullah Pain is irrelevant; ignore him. Mullah Happy looks at me despairingly. But you don’t understand, Sarkaar, you don’t! Mullah Pain may be irrelevant to you but he shapes and influences hundreds others! He misleads them; he uses the mimber for his own selfish ends. I want to say something but Mullah Happy holds up a hand. He pokes a finger out.
One. He uses rotten language against Muslim majority and degrades their holy men.
Two. He riles his followers with exaggerated claims about events in Kerbala that have no relevance either in history or logic.
Three. He puts down and condemns anybody that dares to challenge him; he was instrumental in having a pious and highly intellectual lady arrested and deported from India.
Four. He tolerates and encourages bizarre rituals about events in Kerbala. Have you been to Dogri during 10 days of Murarram? I shake my head, no. You should come and witness the circus here; it will blow your mind! 90% of rituals have nothing to do with Islam or the message of Imam Hussein (A). We decorate horses and pigeons and Allah knows what not. Then we touch them and kiss them and circulate little babies around them and even pray to them. No wonder some call us idol worshippers, I don’t blame them.
Five. He and his lot are responsible for leading our people astray, I hold them responsible.
Mullah Happy takes in a huge gulp of air and stops. He says he could continue for hours but my time is up, I have to leave. I pay for lunch, thank him for his time and company and we part ways outside the restaurant. I am too exhausted mentally to think about anything on the ride home. After few unsuccessful attempts at conversation by Sarfaraaz, the driver, I am left alone and I take a much needed nap.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Mullah Happy's fury - Part 1
I meet Mullah Happy regularly and he is, at most times, a pretty decent fellow, soft-spoken, mild in temperament and outlook. We usually meet every Friday after Juma prayers and today is no exception. The khutba is excellent as usual; he has prepared well, knows his material and dwells on how a Muslim needs to live an upright life amongst non-Muslims here in India and the West in general. An apt subject, one close to my heart and I pay full attention this Friday after Eid e Zahra. And so I comment on it after prayers while we wait to be served our lunch at Delhi Durbaar Restaurant, just a stone's throw away from the Khoja mosque at Palaghalli in Dongri, Mumbai.
Humble and modest person that he is, Mullah Happy looks acutely uncomfortable with my praise for he suddenly demands Did you hear Mullah Pain's lecture yesterday? I have never known Mullah Happy demanding or raising his voice ever before, so it takes me a while to shake off the shock I feel. Mullah Pain is a popular aalim in Mumbai (and elsewhere in India), always seen around during Muharram. Loud, vocal and reckless, he lambastes fellow Muslims who do not share his views at all his lectures, obviously relishing the " waah, waah, waah” reaction from (mostly uninformed and poor) masses. He is controversial old man, been in a soup a number of times, but remains very popular nevertheless.
Well, Mullah Happy, I say, you know I do not listen to him, you know what I think of him. Now what did he say that has you in a knot? Mullah Happy looks at me perplexed and purses his lips. What he said, what he said... he splutters, showering me with drizzle of spit that flies out of his trembling mouth, he used foul language against the gang of three. Again! I smile; Mullah Pain always has something bad to say about the gang of three, this is nothing new. My smile is seen as an affront, for Mullah Happy then does something else he has never done. He slams a bunched fist on the table, making me, the china and condiments all jump; a pickled onion gets a mind of its own and slowly but surely topples over and rolls along the table and comes resting near me, as if for safety. Do not take this lightly Sir,admonishes Mullah Happy, for his type of people are going to destroy us and destroy the chances of Muslims having any self respect in this country!
I am truly amazed at the transformation of this, well, until a little while ago, a pretty docile man. Well, I ask, what do you think needs to be done to control him? Our talk is interrupted by our waiter as he places a whole tandoori chicken, daal fry, mutton botis and butter naans in front of us. Now let me tell you this: Mumbai has a lot of good restaurants, but Delhi Durbaar in Pala Ghalli is unbeatable in taste and price. So for the next fifteen minutes, Mullah Pain is put on a back burner as we attack the spread in front of us in relative silence and enjoy, grunting in pleasure as the taste buds spring to life and sniff, sniff as hot spicy masalaas kick in delicious torment. It is only after the meal and hot chai that I appraise my agitated friend and wait for him to complete his tirade. He lets out a small, surpressed burp and goes on the offensive.
How low can we sink? You know that Muslims in India are a minority and we are a minority of this minority. After all that India has been through last year and more so after November 26, all of us, especially us mullahs need to be extra careful about what we say. And act. We need to be more accommodating and open to the government here, more helpful. After all, thirty plus percent of people slaughtered on November 26 were Muslims. But no! We remain combative and daring, not against ones who we consider non-believers but against our own Muslims.
Mullah Happy is definitely not a happy man today; he is seething with anger and in no mood to take my side remarks or jokes that he (at most times) finds entertaining. I refrain from commenting today and sit back to listen to another majlis.
To be continued…
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Callous Customs - Australia
I am on my way to visit Australia, invited to preset Comfort Aid International projects to various communities in Sydney and Melbourne. It is a long flight this, 14 hours and I am bushed by the time I land at Sydney airport. This is my second trip to Sydney in 18 years, the earlier one very brief of 2 nights and 3 days to attend a conference where I cannot remember doing anything useful. I did attend lots of luncheons and dinners and remember going around Sydney harbor and Opera House. I also remember staying at a super expensive hotel that was very good but not worth the money, but I was not paying the bill, my employer was so I can't say it bothered me a lot. But I do remember feeling a little uneasy because the final bill was hefty indeed.
I clear immigration pretty quickly; the officer hardly seem awake with a bored expression on his face that perks up when he sees several Afghanistan visas stamps on my American passport. And what is your business in Afghanistan? He asks. None of yours, I feel the urge to respond but tell him I am building schools and orphanages. Welcome to Australia says he with a laud thump on my passport and I am through.
There is quite a long line for Customs however; I remember the dire warnings of consequences on the Customs Declaration Card for bringing raw fruits and or vegetables if caught. The women Customs officer who I hand my form to immediately tenses and gives me a hard, sharp look as soon as she looks at it. Come, come she croons in a throaty voice, come, follow me and leads the way towards the back. A discreet sign informs me I am entering a security restricted zone and talking on the cell phone or taking photos are acts punishable by various jail terms; I get the first inkling of dread.
We settle around an inspection table and she asks me to open my suitcase and laptop bag. What brings you to Australia? She asks with an obvious fake smile. Her badge says she's Cathy and she isn’t pretty; pudgy with straining pant buttons and an ill fitting, tight Customs uniform. Her hair is unkempt and her breath emits noxious odor of stale cigarettes. Holiday, as I have stated in my Customs and Immigration card, I say. Yeah mate, I can read, she retorts. So why ask? I want to say but my keep my cheekiness in check and hold a straight face.
Now let me pause here and admit that I am an impatient person by nature; this has worked for and against me in life. What I cannot stand, however, is racism and stupid questioning by racist people in power who want to harass me. This piece of turd was a raciest out and out, she thought she had a possible "Muzlim terrorist" she could scalp and receive a promotion perhaps, who knows.
Anyway, I really lose my cool after about ten minutes of constant and nonsensical line of repeated questions. Why do you want to visit Sydney? She asks for the tenth time and I throw up my hands in disgust. Ma'am, I have already answered that question several times. I am here to visit Australia, as a tourist, the whole of Australia, including Sydney and Melbourne. Well, she shrugs, answer again, grinning, obviously enjoying my frustration. I do as she asks. Then she starts going through my belongings, piece by piece. Another lady, no name tag, excitedly joins Cathy as they sense a "prize" after they discover five SIM cards, one each for Afghanistan, India, UAE, USA and Reunion in my possession. They take my laptop, cell phone and SIM cards away; time passes and I get worried a little. I remember the case of the framed doctor who got trapped and falsely accused, imprisoned and tried by the Australians under Howard's tenure, only to be acquitted later. I worry some more. Emirates Airlines driver who is to drive me to the hotel must think I did not make it and must be preparing to leave...
The duo return, aided by a man in a suit and tie, obviously a senior, who parks half a butt on the examining table and stares at me. The repeated line of questioning continues. I ask for a supervisor; I am told the seated man is a supervisor, a Peter something. Cathy continues questioning: Why Melbourne? Who will you see in Melbourne? Who else do you know in Australia? How do you know them? When did you know first? What are their names? Contact numbers? Address? What do you do? Why do you travel so much? Eh? What kind of a question is this, I wonder; very similar to one I was asked while passing through London to the US a few years ago. I smile. Is it a crime to travel the way I do in Australia? Silence. Tell me again what you do in Afghanistan, demands Cathy. I tell her; again, I help build schools, orphanages and hospitals. Yeah? Where do you get the money to do all this? I shine. From good people all over the world, maybe like you? Would you care to donate to one of my projects? If looks could kill, I would be set in Rigor Mortis long ago. Her chubby cheeks redden dark as she turns and walks off towards where the other two had disappeared some time ago.
She returns after about ten minutes and mercifully, stays mum, going through the rest of my suitcase, occasionally glancing at me sullenly; I sense resignation, defeat in her. I relax. These nuts have nothing on me and I have done nothing wrong; it was going to be all right. I want to pee badly and I ask if I could use a bathroom. Two male officers must accompany you to the bathroom, you cannot lock the door. You still want to use one? I decline and she breaks her sullen face into bitchy smile. After about another thirty minutes, the other women returns with my laptop and phone.
We are all done, she declares, you can pack up and leave. I do that and am about to wheel the cart out when she quips: Have fun in Australia. I stop, turn and look at them and feel sorry for their racist mindset. I restrain a very strong urge to say something very sarcastic and insulting but I bite my tongue and leave, only to find that my ride has indeed taken off.
I clear immigration pretty quickly; the officer hardly seem awake with a bored expression on his face that perks up when he sees several Afghanistan visas stamps on my American passport. And what is your business in Afghanistan? He asks. None of yours, I feel the urge to respond but tell him I am building schools and orphanages. Welcome to Australia says he with a laud thump on my passport and I am through.
There is quite a long line for Customs however; I remember the dire warnings of consequences on the Customs Declaration Card for bringing raw fruits and or vegetables if caught. The women Customs officer who I hand my form to immediately tenses and gives me a hard, sharp look as soon as she looks at it. Come, come she croons in a throaty voice, come, follow me and leads the way towards the back. A discreet sign informs me I am entering a security restricted zone and talking on the cell phone or taking photos are acts punishable by various jail terms; I get the first inkling of dread.
We settle around an inspection table and she asks me to open my suitcase and laptop bag. What brings you to Australia? She asks with an obvious fake smile. Her badge says she's Cathy and she isn’t pretty; pudgy with straining pant buttons and an ill fitting, tight Customs uniform. Her hair is unkempt and her breath emits noxious odor of stale cigarettes. Holiday, as I have stated in my Customs and Immigration card, I say. Yeah mate, I can read, she retorts. So why ask? I want to say but my keep my cheekiness in check and hold a straight face.
Now let me pause here and admit that I am an impatient person by nature; this has worked for and against me in life. What I cannot stand, however, is racism and stupid questioning by racist people in power who want to harass me. This piece of turd was a raciest out and out, she thought she had a possible "Muzlim terrorist" she could scalp and receive a promotion perhaps, who knows.
Anyway, I really lose my cool after about ten minutes of constant and nonsensical line of repeated questions. Why do you want to visit Sydney? She asks for the tenth time and I throw up my hands in disgust. Ma'am, I have already answered that question several times. I am here to visit Australia, as a tourist, the whole of Australia, including Sydney and Melbourne. Well, she shrugs, answer again, grinning, obviously enjoying my frustration. I do as she asks. Then she starts going through my belongings, piece by piece. Another lady, no name tag, excitedly joins Cathy as they sense a "prize" after they discover five SIM cards, one each for Afghanistan, India, UAE, USA and Reunion in my possession. They take my laptop, cell phone and SIM cards away; time passes and I get worried a little. I remember the case of the framed doctor who got trapped and falsely accused, imprisoned and tried by the Australians under Howard's tenure, only to be acquitted later. I worry some more. Emirates Airlines driver who is to drive me to the hotel must think I did not make it and must be preparing to leave...
The duo return, aided by a man in a suit and tie, obviously a senior, who parks half a butt on the examining table and stares at me. The repeated line of questioning continues. I ask for a supervisor; I am told the seated man is a supervisor, a Peter something. Cathy continues questioning: Why Melbourne? Who will you see in Melbourne? Who else do you know in Australia? How do you know them? When did you know first? What are their names? Contact numbers? Address? What do you do? Why do you travel so much? Eh? What kind of a question is this, I wonder; very similar to one I was asked while passing through London to the US a few years ago. I smile. Is it a crime to travel the way I do in Australia? Silence. Tell me again what you do in Afghanistan, demands Cathy. I tell her; again, I help build schools, orphanages and hospitals. Yeah? Where do you get the money to do all this? I shine. From good people all over the world, maybe like you? Would you care to donate to one of my projects? If looks could kill, I would be set in Rigor Mortis long ago. Her chubby cheeks redden dark as she turns and walks off towards where the other two had disappeared some time ago.
She returns after about ten minutes and mercifully, stays mum, going through the rest of my suitcase, occasionally glancing at me sullenly; I sense resignation, defeat in her. I relax. These nuts have nothing on me and I have done nothing wrong; it was going to be all right. I want to pee badly and I ask if I could use a bathroom. Two male officers must accompany you to the bathroom, you cannot lock the door. You still want to use one? I decline and she breaks her sullen face into bitchy smile. After about another thirty minutes, the other women returns with my laptop and phone.
We are all done, she declares, you can pack up and leave. I do that and am about to wheel the cart out when she quips: Have fun in Australia. I stop, turn and look at them and feel sorry for their racist mindset. I restrain a very strong urge to say something very sarcastic and insulting but I bite my tongue and leave, only to find that my ride has indeed taken off.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Haseena, the child woman - Final?
I have to leave and get up to go but I want to help her. I tell her I will be traveling abroad for 2 weeks and ask her if she will let me help her when I return. She turns and looks at me strangely again, the weariness returns on her face. What help? She asks cautiously. I smile. I want to enroll you in a school, so you can study and stop this terrible work you do. She regards me despairingly, just as a mother would a trying child. And who will feed me? And provide money for that dog at home? It must be a special type of hate, the way she says it, full of venom and hatred. I wish you would not call your mum’s husband a dog. I can arrange for your meals and clothing taken care of. Your step dad will have to look for money someplace else. She snorts her laughter again, a lengthy one. You are very naïve, takla (bald) uncle. I have some advice for you. Leave me to my fate, for you do not know the bastard snake I have at home. He will kill you if he finds out I am talking to you and you are giving me money. You are a good man, go back to your family. If you really want to help me, give me some more money, I will buy my freedom someday and disappear from Mumbai. Before that snake strikes me to satisfy his lust; you understand what I am saying, don’t you?
Embarrassed, I promise to look her up again upon return and also promise to think over giving her more money. To escape. Where are you going, bald uncle? She asks suddenly as I leave, traveling where? Her face is so curious and childlike, the question so full of longing to be somewhere else, I think about my Zainab and feel pain in my heart. I am going to Dubai and Burma and Thailand and Singapore, I reply. Baapree, the child cries, you will go on a big plane? Are these places far?
For a cheeky young girl who thinks me naïve and calls me bald uncle, Haseena is special. But I am worried about her. If I were to give her money, where will she go? Will she be able to escape her step dad? I could give her 5,000 (about USD100) or even more but will it solve her problem, a child of 12? I think and worry about her often during the 2 weeks I am away…
I am back to India and eager to go visit Haseena again; have 10,000 in alms rupees ready for her. I head out towards the awakening city and turn the corner where she is usually huddled up, churning up garbage. But the spot is now gone and where there was an easy, empty corner with piled up garbage before, there is a 7 foot high wall, completely cutting off the corner. The wall runs along a wide area of the corner lot with warning signs here and there, warning trespassers of possible persecution. My heart skips a beat and I jog around the wall in the hope of finding her elsewhere; she is nowhere. I cross the road and ask the banana vendor. Gone, he says, the owners of the land kicked her off the grounds. My heart sinks. Do you know where she may be? Do you know her parents, her mother, her father? The guy shrugs his shoulders carelessly and ignoring me, tends to an approaching customer.
I am so upset; I worry about her all day. Where would she be? If I could only get her the money at least. I try again today; no luck. I could kick myself; I should have at least given her my home address, not even 5 minutes away…
Where are you Haseena, my child, my woman child? I wish you well and earnestly pray that you find happiness wherever you end up.
Embarrassed, I promise to look her up again upon return and also promise to think over giving her more money. To escape. Where are you going, bald uncle? She asks suddenly as I leave, traveling where? Her face is so curious and childlike, the question so full of longing to be somewhere else, I think about my Zainab and feel pain in my heart. I am going to Dubai and Burma and Thailand and Singapore, I reply. Baapree, the child cries, you will go on a big plane? Are these places far?
For a cheeky young girl who thinks me naïve and calls me bald uncle, Haseena is special. But I am worried about her. If I were to give her money, where will she go? Will she be able to escape her step dad? I could give her 5,000 (about USD100) or even more but will it solve her problem, a child of 12? I think and worry about her often during the 2 weeks I am away…
I am back to India and eager to go visit Haseena again; have 10,000 in alms rupees ready for her. I head out towards the awakening city and turn the corner where she is usually huddled up, churning up garbage. But the spot is now gone and where there was an easy, empty corner with piled up garbage before, there is a 7 foot high wall, completely cutting off the corner. The wall runs along a wide area of the corner lot with warning signs here and there, warning trespassers of possible persecution. My heart skips a beat and I jog around the wall in the hope of finding her elsewhere; she is nowhere. I cross the road and ask the banana vendor. Gone, he says, the owners of the land kicked her off the grounds. My heart sinks. Do you know where she may be? Do you know her parents, her mother, her father? The guy shrugs his shoulders carelessly and ignoring me, tends to an approaching customer.
I am so upset; I worry about her all day. Where would she be? If I could only get her the money at least. I try again today; no luck. I could kick myself; I should have at least given her my home address, not even 5 minutes away…
Where are you Haseena, my child, my woman child? I wish you well and earnestly pray that you find happiness wherever you end up.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Haseena, the child woman, part 2.
That is a nice name, Haseena, I say.
She stops her prodding and regards me, suspicious and wary once more. Hey, hey, I say, alarmed by her ready and vivid assumptions. I mean no harm. I am old enough to be your father; I have a daughter your age. She resumes her attack on the greatly diminished pile of garbage. We make an unlikely pair and are subject to curious glances from people walking about on this busy street. At one point, the banana vendor across the street ventures over and speaks to Haseena in Marathi, asking her who I was; she tells him to mind his own business. Hurt, he returns back to his seat and stares at us sullenly.
Why are you not in school? I ask. She snorts in laughter, a sharp intake of air through the nose and barring of cracked, uneven teeth, it is a laugh without any warmth. Here is the story of Haseena as told to me over 2 meets. I must admit I paid her INR100 (about USD2) every time I met her, and she opened up to talk nicely. For a girl of only 12, she had the street smarts of a person most mature.
She is Haseena Sheikh, about 12 or 13 year old, she’s not too sure, living with her mom and step dad in a hovel across the sea from Andheri in Malaad. Her natural father abandons her and her mother the day Haseena is born. Her maternal grandfather dies a month later and her mother begins a career with garbage heaps soon after; she has to eat and there is enough money in garbage if one works hard. Her mother marries a close cousin, a divorced man, a haraami (a bastard, her words). Haseena spits at every mention of her step dad. Haseena is put to work at age 5; her step dad needs the money for tobacco pareeki and the local brew. She has to meet a daily quota so she has to work 3 garbage collection points; her step dad has paid the local mafia for the privilege to work these. You seem to hate your step dad a lot, why? I ask. Haseena spits once more, uncomfortably close to where I am seated, the blob accurately targeted towards sparse shrubs nearby. Haraami, kutta...he has eyes for me, for my jism (body); he tries to watch me when I bathe or go to the toilet. Haraami saala. Spit, spit.
What about your mother? I ask her. Beekar auraat (useless women), she replies and snorts in laughter at my shocked look. She married that kutta (dog) because she had the hots for him, now he eyes me and undresses me with his eyes and she does nothing. She is trapped, you see. She loves him, can’t leave him because my dad left us and she is afraid she’ll be alone if he were to leave as well. So she sacrifices me and lets him ogle and harass me. I feel so miserable at her bitterness and misfortune, I want to weep!
Haseena wakes up very early, fetches water from a public tap and prepares for dinner, chopping onions and vegetables that her mother will cook into curry that evening. She cleans up, not that there is a lot to clean and has breakfast of tea and pau baaji or leftover dinner from last night. Her first stop is here, where she will work for about 2 hours and then 2 more heaps in other parts of Andheri before heading home to misery and the eyes of her step dad following her every move. What does she do with the sorted garbage? A tempo (motorbike converted into a compact truck) comes by and hauls it away to where she knows not.
To be continued….tomorrow?
She stops her prodding and regards me, suspicious and wary once more. Hey, hey, I say, alarmed by her ready and vivid assumptions. I mean no harm. I am old enough to be your father; I have a daughter your age. She resumes her attack on the greatly diminished pile of garbage. We make an unlikely pair and are subject to curious glances from people walking about on this busy street. At one point, the banana vendor across the street ventures over and speaks to Haseena in Marathi, asking her who I was; she tells him to mind his own business. Hurt, he returns back to his seat and stares at us sullenly.
Why are you not in school? I ask. She snorts in laughter, a sharp intake of air through the nose and barring of cracked, uneven teeth, it is a laugh without any warmth. Here is the story of Haseena as told to me over 2 meets. I must admit I paid her INR100 (about USD2) every time I met her, and she opened up to talk nicely. For a girl of only 12, she had the street smarts of a person most mature.
She is Haseena Sheikh, about 12 or 13 year old, she’s not too sure, living with her mom and step dad in a hovel across the sea from Andheri in Malaad. Her natural father abandons her and her mother the day Haseena is born. Her maternal grandfather dies a month later and her mother begins a career with garbage heaps soon after; she has to eat and there is enough money in garbage if one works hard. Her mother marries a close cousin, a divorced man, a haraami (a bastard, her words). Haseena spits at every mention of her step dad. Haseena is put to work at age 5; her step dad needs the money for tobacco pareeki and the local brew. She has to meet a daily quota so she has to work 3 garbage collection points; her step dad has paid the local mafia for the privilege to work these. You seem to hate your step dad a lot, why? I ask. Haseena spits once more, uncomfortably close to where I am seated, the blob accurately targeted towards sparse shrubs nearby. Haraami, kutta...he has eyes for me, for my jism (body); he tries to watch me when I bathe or go to the toilet. Haraami saala. Spit, spit.
What about your mother? I ask her. Beekar auraat (useless women), she replies and snorts in laughter at my shocked look. She married that kutta (dog) because she had the hots for him, now he eyes me and undresses me with his eyes and she does nothing. She is trapped, you see. She loves him, can’t leave him because my dad left us and she is afraid she’ll be alone if he were to leave as well. So she sacrifices me and lets him ogle and harass me. I feel so miserable at her bitterness and misfortune, I want to weep!
Haseena wakes up very early, fetches water from a public tap and prepares for dinner, chopping onions and vegetables that her mother will cook into curry that evening. She cleans up, not that there is a lot to clean and has breakfast of tea and pau baaji or leftover dinner from last night. Her first stop is here, where she will work for about 2 hours and then 2 more heaps in other parts of Andheri before heading home to misery and the eyes of her step dad following her every move. What does she do with the sorted garbage? A tempo (motorbike converted into a compact truck) comes by and hauls it away to where she knows not.
To be continued….tomorrow?
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Haseena, the child woman.
It is a mere 10 minute walk from my home behind Yari Road to Bank of India and I cherish the cool morning walk to it every time I have to go there. The dogs have tired from scavenging heaps of dumped garbage last night and their bellies are full; they now nap. The walk gives me a change to see urban India wake up; the sweeping from roads its muck: filthy pieces of dog poop, discarded sachets of Paan Paraag and her sisters concoctions, plastic bags, etc. Unfortunately, stain patterns from paan and tobacco spit, on the street and the boundary walls cannot be swept away, even with sharp, strong brittle brooms of the street cleaners; a curse that will stay on during my lifetime, for sure. Cute kids in smart uniforms being dragged to bus stops by harassed mothers, vegetable and fruit vendors sprucing up their wares or shopkeepers flicking dust and grime off old merchandise with a sharp jerk of cloth duster.
I see her again, this girl child, busy sorting out trash with her bare hands as I pass the little corner where garbage from the neighborhood is discarded. She is quick and efficient; newspapers, plastic, cans, clothes and others go into a semi-neat pile around her. A hooked, pointed iron prod gripped on her left hand loosens the trash while the right hand moves to do the sorting. I am intrigued; she can be no more than 9 or 10 perhaps, a little older than my Zainab. Why is she not in school? Poor, of course. But to do this every day? I can smell the putrefied stink from the heap from where I stand observing her about 20 feet away; what about her? I have encountered her every morning at least twice, thrice a week and have always been captivated by her presence.
Today, instead of walking by and away, I pause by her. She senses before she sees me and tenses, at once afraid. She turns and is on her feet at once, the iron prod raised, as if in self defense and startles me; I step back hastily and hold my arms up wide and smile, indicating I mean no harm. She still does not let her guard down, and has her weapon up, ready to strike.
Namaste, I say in Hindi, and fold my palms in an Indian greeting. Do not be afraid, I will not harm you. I jut want to ask you a few questions.
She regards me warily as a bead of sweat starts to descend down her furrow to her chin; she wipes it off impatiently. She is strikingly pretty but grimy; her face is dark with grime, her fingernails a mess, her hair under a duppatta filthy and clothes grubby. The odor of rot and decay is strong and hard to take and I try hard not to let my disgust show on my face. But her eyes, they are piercing and intense as she looks me up and down; assessing, calculating risk, my danger possibility.
What do you want, she demands, I do not do dhandha (I am not a prostitute). I am shocked and stunned by her response; not only is her voice of a much older person, she is not a child in knowledge of the streets. Perhaps it is the shock on my face and the sheer embarrassment I feel at her assumption that she relaxes and lowers her weapon, squats back to her work and starts attacking the pile of trash again. I am unsure what to do and ponder my next move for a moment. There is a pile of discarded concrete blocks towards an open field very near where she squats and I head there, pulling my attar laden handkerchief out, keeping it close by, just in case. I sit on the blocks and watch her work for a while, breathing in from the handkerchief; she tightens her duppatta around her and ignores me, attacking the pile in front of her with determination.
What is your name? I ask. She does not answer; I assume she has not heard me. Just as I am about to repeat my question, she answers, in the same adult voice, so softly, I can barely hear her.
Haseena.
To be continued….soon.
I see her again, this girl child, busy sorting out trash with her bare hands as I pass the little corner where garbage from the neighborhood is discarded. She is quick and efficient; newspapers, plastic, cans, clothes and others go into a semi-neat pile around her. A hooked, pointed iron prod gripped on her left hand loosens the trash while the right hand moves to do the sorting. I am intrigued; she can be no more than 9 or 10 perhaps, a little older than my Zainab. Why is she not in school? Poor, of course. But to do this every day? I can smell the putrefied stink from the heap from where I stand observing her about 20 feet away; what about her? I have encountered her every morning at least twice, thrice a week and have always been captivated by her presence.
Today, instead of walking by and away, I pause by her. She senses before she sees me and tenses, at once afraid. She turns and is on her feet at once, the iron prod raised, as if in self defense and startles me; I step back hastily and hold my arms up wide and smile, indicating I mean no harm. She still does not let her guard down, and has her weapon up, ready to strike.
Namaste, I say in Hindi, and fold my palms in an Indian greeting. Do not be afraid, I will not harm you. I jut want to ask you a few questions.
She regards me warily as a bead of sweat starts to descend down her furrow to her chin; she wipes it off impatiently. She is strikingly pretty but grimy; her face is dark with grime, her fingernails a mess, her hair under a duppatta filthy and clothes grubby. The odor of rot and decay is strong and hard to take and I try hard not to let my disgust show on my face. But her eyes, they are piercing and intense as she looks me up and down; assessing, calculating risk, my danger possibility.
What do you want, she demands, I do not do dhandha (I am not a prostitute). I am shocked and stunned by her response; not only is her voice of a much older person, she is not a child in knowledge of the streets. Perhaps it is the shock on my face and the sheer embarrassment I feel at her assumption that she relaxes and lowers her weapon, squats back to her work and starts attacking the pile of trash again. I am unsure what to do and ponder my next move for a moment. There is a pile of discarded concrete blocks towards an open field very near where she squats and I head there, pulling my attar laden handkerchief out, keeping it close by, just in case. I sit on the blocks and watch her work for a while, breathing in from the handkerchief; she tightens her duppatta around her and ignores me, attacking the pile in front of her with determination.
What is your name? I ask. She does not answer; I assume she has not heard me. Just as I am about to repeat my question, she answers, in the same adult voice, so softly, I can barely hear her.
Haseena.
To be continued….soon.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Burma calling
Burma, or Myanmar for those that like being politically correct, evokes conflicting and exotic paradigms, shaped by what we hear in the news or Internet; well, it is both. It was a nighttime landing, so save for the simmering lights of airport terminal building and a scattering of city lights, I had no clue what Rangoon looked like. I was in for a very pleasant surprise indeed. Not only was the airport terminal spotlessly clean and modern, the people I met with were so friendly, I thought we had landed at a wrong country perhaps.
The Burmese smile a lot, all of them! From the immigration officials to the street cleaner to the gardener tending flower beds and shrubs in the streets, they would pause from their tasks and bare betel nut brown teeth in an infectious smile. And the young always defer to their elders, always. I liked Myanmar from the first go.
The streets were relatively clean and well maintained, the traffic unchaotic, the pollution (always an issue with me) tolerable. Traders Hotel in central Rangoon was a delight, it's service impeccable and the free sumptuous breakfast incredible. Was this the poor and starving country I had read about? I am even more convinced poverty has nothing to do with cleanliness. Hear that India?
Although the average poor guy in the street has his work cut out for him earning a decent living, I saw no degrading poverty anywhere. There were some child urchins but nothing compared to the beggar menace of Mumbai, where I live. Burmese eat tons of paan, yes the intoxicating kind and her populace have permanent stained teeth. However, I did not see a single person spit or mar a pavement.
The military junta of Myanmar is a disciplined lot and you see this discipline in the people and in the systems that work and are largely efficient. However, the ordinary person's life is tightly regulated and there are no civil liberties. You could go to jail for the flimsiest reason and any protest is brutally put down; no dissent is tolerated whatsoever. We were not allowed to travel to the cyclone Nargis affected areas by the military.
Internet access is tightly controlled at official places, like our hotel. I paid USD 2 for half an hour on the net only to have access to Yahoo mail and Hotmail portals blocked! Go down the street and pay USD 0.50 for an hour and the smiling owner routes to a server outside Myanmar and you can access anything your heart desires. Go figure!
I gorged on tropical fruits; giant size guavas, mangoes, Indian almonds (khungu), jack fruit (fenesi), khunazi, sorry, I do not know the English equaling name. And the incredible seafood! I also took full advantage of the incredible massage services available. You could get an hour worth of foot or body massage (or others) for about USD 5! On our final night in Burma, I went along to the massage center at a hotel and both Mujaahid Sharrif who I was accompanying and I settled down to an hour of bliss with two strong guys kneading, pulling and stretching our bodies.
What we did not know is breaking of wind in Burmese society is acceptable behavior. At the time I was settling down to the pleasure of having my body pampered, my masseuse let out a laud and startling ripple. Huh, I thought, may be an accident and let it go, only to be replaced by another go in about a minute. Mujaahid could not restrain himself and convulsed into laughter, and the two masseurs joined in. When a third fart was let out, I became alarmed, at this rate, where would it end? While Mujaahid and his entertainers amused themselves, I decided to teach the guy a lesson and join in. Alas, my system was uncooperative, however much I tried. I let it pass...
The Burmese smile a lot, all of them! From the immigration officials to the street cleaner to the gardener tending flower beds and shrubs in the streets, they would pause from their tasks and bare betel nut brown teeth in an infectious smile. And the young always defer to their elders, always. I liked Myanmar from the first go.
The streets were relatively clean and well maintained, the traffic unchaotic, the pollution (always an issue with me) tolerable. Traders Hotel in central Rangoon was a delight, it's service impeccable and the free sumptuous breakfast incredible. Was this the poor and starving country I had read about? I am even more convinced poverty has nothing to do with cleanliness. Hear that India?
Although the average poor guy in the street has his work cut out for him earning a decent living, I saw no degrading poverty anywhere. There were some child urchins but nothing compared to the beggar menace of Mumbai, where I live. Burmese eat tons of paan, yes the intoxicating kind and her populace have permanent stained teeth. However, I did not see a single person spit or mar a pavement.
The military junta of Myanmar is a disciplined lot and you see this discipline in the people and in the systems that work and are largely efficient. However, the ordinary person's life is tightly regulated and there are no civil liberties. You could go to jail for the flimsiest reason and any protest is brutally put down; no dissent is tolerated whatsoever. We were not allowed to travel to the cyclone Nargis affected areas by the military.
Internet access is tightly controlled at official places, like our hotel. I paid USD 2 for half an hour on the net only to have access to Yahoo mail and Hotmail portals blocked! Go down the street and pay USD 0.50 for an hour and the smiling owner routes to a server outside Myanmar and you can access anything your heart desires. Go figure!
I gorged on tropical fruits; giant size guavas, mangoes, Indian almonds (khungu), jack fruit (fenesi), khunazi, sorry, I do not know the English equaling name. And the incredible seafood! I also took full advantage of the incredible massage services available. You could get an hour worth of foot or body massage (or others) for about USD 5! On our final night in Burma, I went along to the massage center at a hotel and both Mujaahid Sharrif who I was accompanying and I settled down to an hour of bliss with two strong guys kneading, pulling and stretching our bodies.
What we did not know is breaking of wind in Burmese society is acceptable behavior. At the time I was settling down to the pleasure of having my body pampered, my masseuse let out a laud and startling ripple. Huh, I thought, may be an accident and let it go, only to be replaced by another go in about a minute. Mujaahid could not restrain himself and convulsed into laughter, and the two masseurs joined in. When a third fart was let out, I became alarmed, at this rate, where would it end? While Mujaahid and his entertainers amused themselves, I decided to teach the guy a lesson and join in. Alas, my system was uncooperative, however much I tried. I let it pass...
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